


I Think We're Alone Now

by greenonions, Trigonometrical



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Professor-Student Relationship, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenonions/pseuds/greenonions, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: “Oh,” Professor Gill says, the interjection enough to startle you. Because he’s—he’s closer than he was, before, reading your notes upside-down. “I saidsemiotics, notsemantics.” He reaches out and touches the back of your hand, as if to stop your frantic note-taking to correct the error.And you- you gasp, like a fuckingidiot—a sharp inhale when his fingers brush your wrist as though you’re a Victorian schoolgirl who’s never been touched.Professor Gill doesn’t recoil at the gasp, though. If anything he lingers. There must be—you truly don’t know,somethingin your own wide-eyed expression when you look up at him—because Professor Gill tilts his head slightly, considering. And the room is so fucking quiet save for hum of the boiler and the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, but even still, you almost miss it when he murmurs, “Mm, yeah, I figured that might be the case.”





	I Think We're Alone Now

**Author's Note:**

> So a couple weeks ago, greenonions and I chatficced this on twitter as extremely (_extremely_) self-indulgent, self-insert fic. And then when I looked at the word count and said, "hey this is like. a real fic. can I adapt it to not be extremely (_extremely_) self-indulgent, self-insert?" greeno agreed! They're a good egg.
> 
> While the concept of a professor-student relationship is inherently somewhere on a scale of dub-con to non-con, the vast majority of this takes place after Brian is no longer Patrick's student. The most they get up to before that is some very Victorian hand-touching. So I've tagged it as both "mildly dubious" and "enthusiastic consent," but as always, stay comfy out there if this is not for you!
> 
> Title is from "I Think We're Alone Now" by Tiffany

It’s—well, it’s _ embarrassing _, is the thing. You don’t get Cs on papers. You don’t get Cs on _ anything_, especially not papers in a class where each assignment is worth twenty-five percent of your grade, and you’ve worked all semester to impress the professor because he’s really fucking smart, and has great opinions on old movies, and also his shoulders fill out a sweater very nicely.

Your vision tunnels until all you can see is the red-penned 77/100 on the top of the page. If this were a film, the bass would ramp up and the edges of the screen would blur, and then the audio might cut out entirely. Or that ringing thing, like the camera was too close to cannon fire. All these cues would tell the audience, without _ telling _ them, that the character felt some sorta way about the grade on their paper. You can see the scene, plain as day.

Which is ironic, since this is a film theory course.

That you now have a B-minus in, if your mental math is to be trusted.

(and it is, because again, you _ don’t get Cs on anything_.)

When it was first explained on Syllabus Day, the paper had seemed fun. Much like the rest of the class, to be honest—Applied Film Theory with Professor Gill, who curses more than even professors at a liberal arts college probably should, and who shows weird, definitely-pirated short films at the end of every class. A challenge. But the kind of challenge you enjoy, especially when it’s a class right in your wheelhouse: you love videos, and you love analyzing shit.

The first two papers followed strict guidelines and even had attached rubrics. But the third paper was a literal grab bag. “To prove you can, you know, Apply the Film Theories we’re learning to literally anything,” Professor Gill had said. “Not just films that you’ve watched a hundred times.”

Professor Gill had placed two bowls on the lectern at the front of the room and had invited each student up one-by-one to draw a slip of paper from each bowl. “Movie plus theory,” he’d said, indicating the bowls. And they’d all had to read their fate out loud, most of which were met with laughs (“_Gone with the Wind _ and post-structuralism”; “_The Blair Witch Project _ and Pure Cinema”), but some with gasps and _ oooh _ s (“_Young Frankenstein _ and Marxist theory”; “_Clue _ and surrealism”).

None of them had been _ too _ bad, though, so the knot in your stomach had loosened quite a bit by the time you’d gone up there. And maybe that should have been your first clue—because in the movie version of this event, it would be the part where your voiceover said _ hey, this will be totally fine _ , and the audience would know, _ well that’s some dramatic fuckin’ irony _.

Because you’d pulled—

“_The Emoji Movie _and queer theory.”

—and even the professor had chuckled and said, “Jesus, I can’t wait to read _ that_.”

It had sucked, like, major ass to write. You’d practically spent the night in the library hopped up on Red Bull (and a shot of vodka that Jonah brought you at 2 a.m. out of pity). But even after all that, you can tell you’re not the only one who’s received a less-than-stellar grade. The woman next to you looks like she’s about to cry, and you can’t help yourself: you peek at her paper and see she got a 55%, yeowch. If you remember correctly, she’d had to write on “_Spy Kids _and New Wave.”

Professor Gill says as much. The curve for this paper was b-a-d, like, he’d have to meet with some higher-up university folks if he left the grades as they were, _ and enough of you bastards got your parents involved, never-the-fuck-mind that’s like twelve FERPA violations and you guys are grown-ups _.

He says it all with a wry grin, though, and yeah—you know if you told your mom about getting a C on a paper, she’d call Professor Gill to give him a piece of her mind (which is why you _ don’t _tell her, when it happens, even though you still kinda sorta want to).

“The good news,” Professor Gill continues from the lectern, “is that I am a benevolent man who doesn’t want to speak to the Dean other than at our bi-weekly department meetings. _ So _.”

He walks around to the side and leans casually on the podium with one elbow, like he’s a youth pastor gearing up for a talk about how Jesus hates vaping or something. “Today’s Wednesday. If you come to my office hours tomorrow to discuss the paper and how you can fix it, and you turn in a rewrite on _ Monday, noon at the latest _ —” he pitches his voice louder, and you scribble furiously on whatever scrap of paper is closest, _ Monday, noon, don’t fuck it up _ — “I’ll pretend this was just a rough draft. And we won't tell next semester’s students that I’m actually not a hardass like Rate My Professor claims I am, _ capiche_?”

“Capiche,” you mumble along with the rest of the class, and then you’re all dismissed, and you’re drafting a formal email to Professor Gill re: office hours before you even make it out of the comms building.

> _ Dear Professor Gill, _

No, _ too _formal.

> _ Hi Professor Gill! _

God, fuckin’—fuckin’ eager beaver over here. Ugh. He’s hot, yeah, but you’re not trying to imply via email greeting that you want to suck his dick.

> _ Professor Gill, _

Great. Good. Great. Now he knows you’re a serial killer.

> _Hi Professor Gill—_
> 
> _ I wanted to schedule an appointment during your office hours tomorrow to discuss my paper. Does 3:30pm work for you? Let me know at your earliest convenience. _
> 
> _ Best, _
> 
> _ Brian David Gilbert _

You get the notification that Professor Gill has responded to your email like ten minutes later, when you’re halfway through a Sbarro pizza slice in the student union:

> _sounds good _
> 
> _ -prof. gill _
> 
> _ \-- _
> 
> _ sent from my iPhone _

\---

Professor Gill wants you to spend more time talking about the panopticon in your essay. He says as much while he fiddles with what looks like a bootleg Toad amiibo on his desk, though why he has that in his dingy, just-above-a-TAs-size office in the basement of the comms building—where there doesn’t appear to be a Switch—you have no idea.

“You bring up all these great details about the world of Textopolis,” Professor Gill says, waving the figurine around. He’s only smirking a little at the _ absurd _ words coming out of his mouth. “And the layout of the phone interior where Gene waits to be _ scanned _ and _ used _ , and then— _ hm, where is—ah yes _ —” he flips through your essay and points with his non-Toad-occupied hand, “and then on page three, you mention the language surrounding technology and personal freedom, _ jailbreak _ and _ firewall _ and such. But I feel like you’re only scratching the surface. Just stating what anyone could see without actually analyzing it.”

“Anyone who watched _The Emoji Movie_,” you quip, and Professor Gill barks a laugh.

“Yes, very true. Which unfortunately now includes us two jabronis.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Whose fault is that?”

Professor Gill declines to answer.

“I was just worried about the paper deviating too far from queer theory,” you say, pulling out your pen to circle the word _ firewall _ on page three, draw an arrow out to a note in the margins that says _ prison state_, “and like—finding the connective tissue to leap from Foucault to Butler in the discussion of Jailbreak’s rejection of traditional femininity as a princess emoji.”

“What even _ is _ gender, in Textopolis?” Professor Gill asks, in a voice that sounds half-genuine, half like that thing professors do where they know the answer and are asking a leading question. He gets up and starts walking-and-talking, waving his hands like he’s wrapped up in his own crackpot—yet somehow? still completely logical and sensical?—theory, not paying attention to his own gesticulations. “Gene is rejected and ostracized because he doesn’t perform in a socially-acceptable way for a meh emoji. Thus he seeks out a community of others like him, others who have, let’s say, _ queered from the norm, _ and performed emotions outside the range of what society tells them to.”

You scribble down about every third word Professor Gill says about the fucking _ Emoji Movie _ . “Jailbreak desires a queer utopia that she believes exists in the Cloud," you say, "and she is willing to do whatever it takes to get there. But Gene still feels beholden to the state." You pause and tap your finger on the desk, thinking. "There are _ definite _ parallels to the weaponization of the gay rights movement via the GLF, and their fight against the respectability politics pushed by the Mattachines—”

Professor Gill laughs, delighted. “Oh _ fuck _ yes, Brian—” he says, voice climbing in his excitement. You find yourself grinning in response, as though his big, stupid dimpled smile is infectious. “Now you’re getting the whackadoodle spirit of the assignment.” 

He keeps spouting off ideas about _the performance of emotion as gender _and _Sedgwick’s closet re: the confined physical space of a smartphone_ as you write, flipping over the essay entirely to scribble notes and little diagrams on the back. You don’t think even one-third of this will end up in the final paper—you’re maybe only a half-step away from true crack theory when Professor Gill says, _one could argue that this film is the most important example of gender subversion in the twenty-first century_, and can’t even make it through the whole sentence before he bursts into laughter—but it’s still fun to bloviate and joke around now that it seems you won’t fail this class after all.

“Oh,” Professor Gill says, the interjection enough to startle you. Because he’s—he’s closer than he was, before, reading your notes upside-down as he peers onto the desk from your left side. “I said _ semiotics_, not _ semantics_.” He reaches out and touches the back of your hand, as if to stop your frantic note-taking to correct the error.

And you—

You gasp, like a fucking idiot—a sharp inhale when his fingers brush your wrist as though you’re a Victorian schoolgirl who’s never been touched. 

Professor Gill doesn’t recoil at the gasp, though. If anything he—_lingers _ . Doesn’t remove his hand from your wrist after he makes contact for the correction. And when you look up at him, his eyes are wide, spooked, like a horse that’s about to dump its rider and bolt into the woods. Like maybe he got caught in the _ freeze _ part of _ fight-flight-freeze _ before he could do it.

There must be—you truly don’t know, something in your own wide-eyed expression when you look up at him—because Professor Gill tilts his head slightly, considering. And the room is so fucking quiet save for hum of the boiler and the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, but even still, you almost miss it when he murmurs, “Mm, yeah, I figured that might be the case.”

Finally, _finally_, he moves his hand, but it’s—oh golly—it’s. 

It’s to reach up and slowly brush some hair away from your face, then tuck it behind your ear.

And then Professor Gill takes those same fingers and places them under your chin, lifts up to close your shocked, Pikachu-meme shaped mouth. He’s smiling, though, apparently moving out of _ freeze _ and into _ flirt_, the unspoken fourth part of the model. “I think between these rewrites and your final paper,” he says—stepping around his desk again, sitting in his chair, putting barriers and miles between the two of you—, “you’ll easily be able to get your grade back up to where you want it. But,” he adds, making meaningful eye contact, “it’s also not so long at all until the end of the semester.”

He holds your gaze, and you’re not stupid—you had an A in the class until this damn paper—so you know exactly what he’s saying between the lines.

But also, you can’t stop yourself from blurting, “I couldn’t focus in class when we talked about this paper because you were wearing that oatmeal sweater and I wanted to know exactly how soft it was.” And then you want to explore the fifth part of the model—_faint_, or maybe, _fuckin-drop-out-of-school_.

Professor Gill’s eyebrows raise, surprised. He quickly morphs it into a smirk, one you’ve never seen him use in class but one that’s going to haunt you for the next two-and-a-half weeks until the end of the semester. “Weather’s getting colder,” he murmurs, a non-sequitur that’s also totally _ not_. “You’ll probably see it again before school’s out.”

He pauses, deep inhales like he’s about to launch into another lecture, then fucking loses it before he even starts, laughing his way through, “Now, do you think you’ll mention that Gene’s father has repressed his gender identity for his whole life, but comes out to Gene literally on Instagram?”

\---

Three weeks later, Professor Gill has finally entered his grades—like two hours before the cut-off deadline, but you won’t call him on that—and now he’s no longer your professor. You ended up with an A-minus in the class, which you’ll fucking _ take _.

When the grade is posted, you get one email notification from the class online Blackboard system about it, and another email notification about a private message from **gill.p [instructor]** who has _ slid into your DM_s. 

> _ Hi Brian! _
> 
> _ During office hours you mentioned that you might want to meet up and discuss your grade at the end of the semester. Is that still the case? Just let me know. _
> 
> _ \--Prof. Gill _

You grin, tongue fully in-cheek as you type a reply on your laptop. 

> _ I’d still like that, thank you! I’m actually home already, where I’ll be for the next two weeks of winter break, but after that I’ll be around campus and available to meet up. Should we plan for then? _
> 
> _ Oh, and here’s my personal email address, since I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have access to the class Blackboard messaging system. _
> 
> _ Best, _
> 
> _ BDG _

It only makes sense, you know. Those online class systems and their penchant for failing when you need them most.

You expect Professor Gill to maybe keep up the ruse with his first email, or at least play it coy, but apparently now that he’s submitted your grades all bets are off. He responds like four minutes later, _ eager beaver_, to your personal email address, and it’s—okay, it’s not a sext, but it’s also not _ not _a sext.

_ I want you to know _, the email starts, no greeting, no nothing, written in a ramble like he had to send it before he thought better of it. 

> _ I want you to know that like, I don’t _ do _ this. With students. And I know that’s the most overused, fake line in the history of fucking fake lines from gross dudes who use their position of power to take advantage of their students. But um. It’s true. I can’t lie for shit, Brian. _
> 
> _ You were actually the one who set the curve with that damn _ Emoji Movie _ paper. And when you finally got into the assignment, I—I was very, very close to compromising my morals and getting us both in a dangerous amount of trouble back in November. And I would have probably—no, definitely—hated myself for that so um. I’m glad I didn’t. Do that shit. _

You reread the phrase _ dangerous amount of trouble _about a dozen times, your eyes fluttering shut as you remember the soft but unyielding touch of his wide hand underneath your jaw.

He’d signed the email _ —Patrick _, and you take a moment to wonder if you will, a) ever be able to call him that in a way that feels natural, and b) if you, maybe, even really want to. Because there’s a part of you, a little dark part buried somewhere at the small of your back, that feels like—like maybe it would be hotter, if you tried it for a bit the other way.

Your email back says:

> _ I’m glad you didn’t do it, then. I’m not looking for trouble. _
> 
> _ Plus, it’s made the anticipation that much better, Professor Gill. _

You message each other fairly regularly over winter break while Professor Gill visits his family up in Maine and you spend time with your dog on the beach. There are a lot of emails talking _ around _the thing, but the build-up is so fucking sweet—the longest, most chaste foreplay you’ve ever experienced in your life. Professor Gill asks after your favorite thing about South Carolina, which mixed drinks are best suited for sipping on a porch in a state where you can still porch-sit in the winter. He tells you about a back-alley wrestling match he goes to in Brunswick where his high school best friend was now performing as a luchador.

But it’s all quite. Charged. You again feel very Victorian, exchanging letters with your lover who’s away at sea, with mentions only of pining for when you two shall reunite. Closer to Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West, rather than James Joyce, but no less salacious for it.

By the time you show up at his house in two-weeks-and-one-day, the bite of January wind at your neck even through your hoodie, you feel about ready to combust. He answers the door in jeans and an olive green henley that you want to touch so badly, and his hair’s gotten a bit longer since you last saw him, and it’s. A good look. He seems to take in your differences as well, eyes flitting over your body on his cold stoop.

“Hi Professor Gill,” you say, and he drags his eyes back up to yours.

“Please, you can call me Patrick.”

You hum, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “Okay but- but hear me out: what if sometimes I _ want _ to call you Professor Gill?”

He runs both of his hands through that stupidly beautiful hair and hisses out, _ shit _, before he tugs you inside. Not like, pulling you or anything—almost not touching you at all, really. But definitely more hands-on than just letting you walk through the door of your own volition. He shuts it harder than necessary behind the two of you, and then you’re alone, door closed, in your former-professor’s entryway-slash-coat closet.

You realize, when the door _sncks _ shut, that neither of you have really _ said _the thing yet. Just hinted around it in ways that have made you slide your hand into your boxer briefs while reading his emails. Like softcore scrambled porn—never enough to get you there on its own, but wonders when accompanied with an overeager imagination.

There’s too much choice now that you can do anything. And you don’t know—well, what’s on the table? You’ve hooked up with people before, but not like _ this _ , this above-board but still illicit _ something _ curling deep down in your stomach. You could ask him, and you’re typically all for negotiating every detail of sex like you’re prepping a freakin’ spreadsheet before you even get someone’s clothes off. But Professor Gill–_Patrick_—makes you want to change that. See how the other half lives, when they’re a bit more spontaneous and give themselves over to it. You want to ask him to kiss you, or touch you. You want to get your own hands in his hair and see if it’s as soft as you’ve hoped.

But really, the only question you can ask is, “What had you wanted to do to me, in November? If you’d given in?”

And, oh god. He takes you by the hand, for real this time, but he _ still _ isn’t saying anything, just guiding you farther into his place out of the front entryway, and it’s- it’s thrilling, in kind of a dangerous way. Leaping into the unknown. To see Patrick so focused—on _ you_, your brain screams—after watching him get so rambly and stuttery and excited in class, when he lands on something he’s passionate about. But there’s no less passion here. He’s single-minded and god, it’s going straight to your dick, the tonal shift that’s knocking you off balance.

He steers you into his living room and turns to face you, finally—really close, _ god_—and runs his broad hand so, so delicately down the side of your cheek, until it’s under your chin again—just like in his office, only—

Only this time, he cups his fingers all the way around the side of your jaw, up toward your ear, tender but unshakably firm. He tilts your head back while he presses down with his wrist, and—fuck, _ fuck_—coaxes you down to your knees.

It’s like water, the way you slide to the floor, fold your knees under yourself on his living room carpet. You maintain eye contact the whole time out of some desperate stab to wrest control of the narrative, make this intentionally sexy rather than getting swept up in the delicious thrill of it. But it’s hard not to float down the river without a paddle when he whispers, “Oh, fuck,” under his breath and closes his eyes—and when he opens them again, they’re dark and intense and boring straight into you.

You think, _ he’s so brave, to trust me with this_, and like, yeah—that’s more than a little fucked up, and you’ll need to unpack it later when you’re back in your own bed, replaying the events of the night. Since neither of you are being particularly _ brave_, just exploiting a loophole so you can feel comfortable thinking with your dicks.

But maybe what you’re actually getting at is that he’s so brave to trust you with how open and sweet he looks right now, how vulnerable—and how it’d be so easy for you to stomp on that vulnerability with your expensive fuck-me boots. He looks like the kind of guy who puts up a tough front but throws his whole heart into every person he falls for.

But that’s a thought train for another day—certainly not the day you’re trying to NSA bang your hot former-professor. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, so his hand is forced up to the back of your scalp. He gets a good, firm hold on your hair. 

“I would have let you,” you say, wetting your lips. “Would have let you do anything to me, back then.”

“And now?” he murmurs, tangling those fingers, poised to pull in a way that will certainly, absolutely ruin you.

You smirk, and heat curls in your belly when it causes him to gasp. “I won’t _ let _ you do anything to me, Professor Gill. You can willingly _ take _ it.”

His fingers spasm in your hair, not pulling, really, but twisting tight until your scalp pricks. It jerks both of you into action—Patrick’s hips jolting toward your face, your body listing forward to press your mouth against his denim-clad thigh. You nuzzle against him at the place where you can feel and _ smell _where he’s getting turned on in his jeans. Just from this, having you here, with him. It’s heady, intoxicating.

Your flick your gaze up to see him biting his lip, looking askance, like he’s still so ashamed to be dropping you to the floor like this, knowing what you’ve been to each other. God, it’s fucking hot. You stroke your hands heavy up his thighs and start making for the fly of his pants. He’s not wearing a belt—planned ahead for the two of you doing this, clearly, _ smart_—so all you have to do is pop the button and pull down his fly.

He’s already half-hard in some gray boxer briefs that leave little to the imagination—Jesus, that color is not forgiving _ at all _, because his dick is visible and fucking sinful through the fabric, and your mouth is watering. You lick the flat of your tongue up the line of him, and he swears and tugs your head close.

Part of you wants to be doing this in his bed. The ol’ horizontal shimmy, much better when performed naked where you can press all up on the length of him, his leggy frame and warm skin that would feel fantastic against you. But this is also thrilling. Delicious. Fully clothed, down on your knees, pulling his jeans and underwear to mid-thigh. Just enough for his dick to spring free, thickening wonderfully under your attention.

Patrick looms over you, makes you feel so cared for but also _ so _ small. God, you could thank him for _hours _ over how it feels, already, to be here with him—and again, that’s too much for a hookup, so you break eye contact as you take the head of his cock in your mouth. The moan that rumbles up from your throat isn’t even showy or affected—it’s real, he tastes _ so _good, salt and skin and heat, way better than a dick has any right to taste, honestly.

You pulse your tongue on the underside of his dick, and he keeps one hand twisted tight in your hair as you slide down the length of him, spit slicking the way. He cups his other hand low around your jaw, down along part of your neck, feeling where your throat is working around him. He moans, _ fuck_, moans, _ Brian_, and clearly tries not to buck his hips against you and push down your throat. But he isn’t doing a very good job of it, so you kind of have to roll with his movements and keep his dick from choking you. You get a hand down to cup over yourself, where you’re hard and straining and needing friction so badly. But you can only focus on that for a second before Patrick starts to pant breathlessly about how good you feel, and suddenly all of your attention narrows to the filth coming out of his mouth.

“Brian,” he whines, “you don’t—you don’t know how many times I thought about this last semester. Over break. _ Shit_—” he gasps as you break off for air, bringing your hand up to jack the base of him, before you slide down until your lips meet your knuckles. “—touched myself imagining—fuck, I jerked off _ in my office _that day after you left, felt so fucking guilty but I- I couldn’t even make it off campus, you were so—I didn’t think you’d also, god, shit—”

He pulls your hair until tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, and you drop your hand to his thigh, clenching the warmth of his leg. His thighs are trembling, like he’s been holding back, but you make eye contact and nod as much as anyone can nod with a dick in their mouth. And at that point, Patrick just fucking _ gives _it to you—your whole mouth and throat stuffed full of him, struggling to breathe through your nose as you quickly lose control of the encounter in your favorite way possible: surrendering more and more of yourself over to his grasping hands and pistoning hips, the scent and taste of him oppressive and impossibly dirty.

You’re whining in the back of your throat, garbled, and you’re leaking tears and clear snot when you pull off his cock for another breath. Your hand takes over for a moment, the slide so slick from your spit and the precome leaking from the wet head of him.

“Want you to come down my throat,” you tell him, your voice sounding wrecked even to your own ears, like when you spend too long in the vocal practice rooms. “Needed it, all semester.” You really give up all your leverage, then, adding: “Turned in my final paper then kicked my roommate out, fucked myself with my dildo pretending it was you.”

And that’s all the time you can bear to be away from his dick, so you swallow Patrick down again.

He’s got both hands tight in your hair now, clutching like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His long, whip-thin body curls around your head as he thrusts forward and matches your rhythm, finding the brutal, furious pace that’s definitely _ doing it _ for both of you. One of your hands moves from his thigh around to the small of his back, fisting the material at the bottom hem of his shirt, while the other hand steals between your legs to rub at yourself again through your pants. Your whole body is a bow string pulled taut, all of your muscles tense and straining under your skin, even where they don’t need to be—it’s gonna kill your knees, tomorrow, you’ll need a freakin’ ice pack—but you’re on _ fire _with it, with him, so, so thirsty for the imminent splash of his come down the back of your throat—

_ God_.

You pull off and he whines with it, pushes forward to try and claim your mouth again, slide between your lips. But you shudder and gasp, “Professor Gill, _ please_,” into the crook of his pelvis. You tongue all over him—sloppy and uncoordinated but no less enthusiastic for it—winding down to his swollen, leaking head. He bumps and jerks all over your lips, spreading through the slick, until you open up for him again and make that toe-curling eye contact as you suck and suck and _ suck _.

Patrick shouts as he comes, you learn, filling your mouth, making an even bigger fucking mess when you open your lips and let him smear the last few drops of it all over your cheek and tongue and lips. You can’t stop tasting him, though—it’s not like jizz tastes _ good_, per se, but you can’t get enough, lapping up the evidence of this, this whole _ thing _between you. You suckle the head of his dick and work him through the aftershocks of it until he’s literally twitching away and out of your mouth.

“Jesus,” Patrick says, panting, as you lick your lips. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and then, with nowhere to put it, grimace and rub your hands on your jeans. Gross. But Patrick’s spent dick hangs over the waistband of his pulled-down briefs, still so inviting, and you kinda already want to get your mouth on it again. They don’t call you Brian “Oral Fixation” David Gilbert for nothing. You’re halfway to pleading to suck him softly, gently—oh you promise you’d be _ so _ gentle with him until he gets hard again—but he grabs you by the shoulders and helps you back up to your feet.

“That was even better than I’d imagined,” he says softly. “Than I thought you’d be.” And then he does that terrible smirk again, the one that makes you clench your legs together against how hard you pop in your jeans, and he adds, “Definitely A-plus work.”

And you can’t help yourself, then—you haven’t even _kissed _ yet and here he is making jokes, and you need to rectify that sitch. Immediately. You crash your mouths together and whine into the kiss when Patrick returns it like he’s starving for you. There’s no taking it slow when you’ve had an entire semester of foreplay, when you’ve already held him in your mouth and metaphorically brought him to his knees. _ Especially _when you discover that he’s as passionate about kissing as he is about teaching, guiding you through it, licking into your mouth and along your soft palate as he grips your forearms in his criminally strong hands.

You finally give in to the temptation to touch his hair—proud of yourself for how long you lasted without doing so—and run your fingers through the soft, messy strands over and over as the kiss powers on, and on, and _ on, _just enough teeth to be good, panting hungrily into each other’s mouths. He’s touching you everywhere, his hands stroking over your hips and your belly and your upper arms and your waist, even though they never seem to land in one place. You can still feel him pushing you, steering again, deeper into his house toward what you can only assume is the direction of his bedroom. He kisses the life out of you and then kisses your soul back into your body, curling his tongue around yours to draw it into his mouth and trap it there, humming and suckling at you.

At the door to his room he stops and pins you hard against the frame, shoving his bony knee into your crotch in the exact perfect way for you to grind your dick against the sharp point of him. Your mouth drops open in a gasp and he licks at the corner of your lips, grabs one of your wrists in his hand and pins your arm up level with your head. You feel trapped, contained, and absolutely stellar as, oh hell, his other hand teases along the bottom hem of your sweatshirt. His fingers duck under your layers, skirting up inside to stroke along the sensitive skin of your midriff, skimming the waistband of your pants in a way that makes your blood _ sing _and pulse even harder down to your aching cock.

“Oh god,” you mumble, trying to turn your head sideways to catch your breath, but he brings up the hand from your stomach to turn you—_by the jaw, sweet lord_—back toward him so he can dip his tongue into your mouth and kiss and press his body fully against yours. It’s not providing the friction that you need to get off, but you grind harder into his knee as he does it, sliding against him in as many points of contact as possible. He pulls away, and you feel yourself start to chase his lips with yours before you snap your head back, embarrassed. But he’s looking between your eyes, your lips, back again like you hung the moon, like he can’t believe you’re here and hot and wanting and grinding into his touch.

“Can we—_ah!_—bed?”

Patrick hums, darts in for another quick kiss, like he can’t help himself now that you’ve started it. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“I’m—” you start, but you trail off into a gasping laugh as he moves his knee in a circle against you. “I’m trying to make a joke about a final exam, but I- I can’t _ think _while you’re doing that.”

“Well,” he says against your neck, too quick for his own good, the bastard. “it is _ cum_-ulative.”

And you’re groaning as he spins you out and away from the wall, helping you out of your shirt in the process. It’s no time at all until you’re both naked and fumbling at each other’s skin at the foot of the bed, your hands rubbing all over his chest and shoulders—_Christ _ he’s more built than you’d even expected under his button-down shirts—

(even though you’d skipped your sosh class after the lecture where Professor Gill had run to class late, mumbled something about his broken AC, and had unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves—and you’d gotten such a _ good _, unexpected glimpse of his forearms and vascular hands that you’d skipped class and rushed to the comms building bathroom, biting the heel of your palm as you came, forced-quiet in the bathroom stall.)

—because for some reason you’d never imagined he’d be built all _ over_, wiry and thin but also holding surprising strength in his chest and thighs and abdomen.

He guides your mouths together again, leading and suggesting with his tongue and teeth, and you buckle your knees so Patrick can push you down to the bed. It’s a little fumbly as you knock knees, and he laughs, breathless, as you tumble a bit. But then he rights himself, leaning over you, pushed up onto his hands and knees and fucking _ looming _again.

“Can I go down on you?” he asks, softly—and you don’t say ‘yes’ in as many words, but you _ do _ throw your head back onto his comforter and say, “Oh fuck,” and he takes it for the _ yes _that it is.

Patrick smiles, so pleased, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth before he presses your lips together in a smacking kiss. Then he noses his way down your sternum, your navel, all the way to your right thigh where you’re so soft and sweaty, close to where you’re desperate for him to touch. Your dick is leaking, and you’re so wet with it already—and he must be able to taste you a bit, too, because he groans and licks and licks and licks at your thigh, the crease of your hip. 

“Please don’t tease me,” you say, getting one hand scruffed in that soft hair, and it feels so good to touch him there while he touches you _ there _.

He slides his mouth down in one quick motion, so warm and wet and hungry, and it’s almost a little too much right out of the gate, but it makes your back arch off the bed. He doesn’t stay there for long, though, just wanted to knock you into pleasure—_stop teasing_, just like you asked. But of course he’s fucking amazing at giving head, god you knew he’d be good at it, had drunkenly rambled as much to Jonah after your first week of class, and it’s _ incredible _to be right.

He takes the flat of his tongue and slides back up your cock, lapping and tasting and getting a feel for you, before he mouths around the wide girth like he can’t get enough. “You’re so hard for me,” Patrick says, slightly muffled as it vibrates into your heated skin.

You make the mistake of looking down and of course he’s staring right at you, just his nose and eyes visible above your pelvis. And he fuuu-_uuucking _ has the nerve to wink at you as he engulfs your dick again—

But you get him back, because the hand in his hair tightens and presses him closer to you so he doesn’t fucking move away from where he’s sucking you, oh god, his throat swallowing and working around you and dragging you deeper into his body. You hold him there, keeping him around you, until he bucks against your hands and twists off your dick, gasping and panting to catch his breath.

“Lube?” you ask weakly, and he flops half off the bed in the general direction of his bedside table, returns with a strip of condoms and a brand new bottle of lube, which you graciously do not bring up.

Patrick wriggles his way back between your thighs, hooks one of your legs over his shoulder as he settles belly-down onto the bed. “Tell me,” he says, soft and gruff, “what are your thoughts on eating ass?”

You can’t help yourself, you buck up toward his face like your hips are controlled by marionette strings, and he laughs—well, he laughs at you, but you can tell it’s not _ at _ you. “Highly positive,” you gasp, twisting your hands into the sheets because if you don’t ground yourself, you might accidentally float away.

“We don’t have to,” Patrick muses. “I know that’s not, like, standard hookup fare.”

“Nuh-uh, no fair,” you say, still twitching. His fingers tighten on your calf. “You can’t dangle getting rimmed in front of me and then take it away.”

“Well if I must,” he says, in an affected-bored accent that vaguely sounds like Michael Caine—which you also graciously do not bring up, partially because it’d be hard to, with how loud you moan when he touches the pointed tip of his tongue to the outside of your rim.

He pushes your other leg, the one still flat on the bed, until it’s bent up at a truly obscene angle, almost frog-like beside you, and you’re on display for him as Patrick bites up and down the globe of your ass. You fumble around for a pillow and slide it under your hips, and then _ oh, _you’re cramping a bit, but the payoff is worth it when he can finally lick over your hole unimpeded. The flat of his tongue sparks every nerve in your pelvis, radiates upward until you feel like you’re on fire with it, with how soft and open he’s getting you. His tongue starts to dip inside, just the briefest flutter, and you cover your mouth with your hand so they can’t hear you yelling two towns over.

“Ah-ah, let me hear you,” Patrick says, before sucking a bruise into your cheek. “Please?”

You rip your hand away and whine into the air, “Fuck, _ Patrick_,” and it’s the first time you’ve used his name like this. It feels heavenly and sinful rolling off your tongue, and the rumble that Patrick groans against your sensitive skin makes it even _ better_. He’s so into it, into you, into _ this_—you’ve been with people who’ve gone down on you as a courtesy, or because you asked, but never like this—like taking you apart is just as much a part of his own undoing. He clearly loves finding all the ways to make you shout with his tongue lapping at you, his fingers gripping and spreading your ass.

One of his hands moves away, and you barely notice until it returns, wet—and then two fingers tease at your hole while his tongue still flicks around them.

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted, but manage to moan, “Fuck me,” before it clips off into a string of garbled nonsense. “Need your fingers in me—_ah! _”

Patrick slides in two fingers and your eyes slam shut. You have to bear down both into your shoulders on the bed, and your hips in his hands, because his fingers are so thick and long and perfect as he curls them upward inside you. “Hh- ohhh my god,” you breathe, but you don’t have time to adjust to the stretch before he pulls his fingers out and slides them home again. The rhythm is slow, steady, pressing so fucking deep inside you as he drags the pads of his fingers along your swollen prostate, making you gasp and twitch and kick out with one of your feet. But his mouth never slows its quick pace, his tongue lashing and undulating over your stretched rim, his own fingers.

You get your fist around your cock, barely stroking, just holding, needing that point of connection. “Patrick, I’m- I’m gonna come for you,” you say, and he bats your hand away from your cock without missing a beat.

You _ wail_, and he fucking _ sucks _ at the edge of your rim, and you’re crunching up your body and yelling—you’re yelling, but not coming, but you’re so fucking close, it’s _ cruel _ you hate him _ so much _as he backs off and licks and huffs a laugh.

And you know some of that was out loud but, “Jesus, Patrick, you—holy shit.”

He kisses, so gently, at the crease of your hip. “Holy shit,” he agrees. Then adds, “I figured you would want to come with me inside you.”

You flop back on the bed with another loud, _ Jesus!!!_, and he’s laughing at you again—a fond, warm belly laugh that makes your toes tingle.

“_Hoo _ boy that was worth waiting for all semester,” you say, wiping some sweat off your forehead. “_Hoo_.”

“It’s not over yet,” he says with a grin, then pauses—“Unless. You want it to be, of course. I’m not—”

“Go wash your mouth out, stud,” you say, pressing the arch of one foot into his thigh, “then get back in here so you can split me open on your cock.”

“_Brian_,” he says, scandalized, and now you get to be the one laughing at _ him _ as he scrambles off the bed and down the hall, presumably to his bathroom.

It’s the fastest hand-washing-and-teeth-brushing that you have ever witnessed, but Patrick is scrubbed and minty fresh when he climbs on the bed five minutes later, half on his side, looking sheepish and five years younger with his hair flopped in his face. He’s just so sweet that you have to sit up for a kiss, bringing your bodies together so your legs tangle, his chest pressed next to yours, the perfect angle for him to slide a hand around the back of your neck and hold you in place. “Hopefully you won’t include this in your Rate My Professor review,” he says, trying to break the slight tension that’s re-entered things since he left the room.

You chuckle, drag him up into a deeper kiss, licking the spearmint flavor out of his mouth until it’s just him, the warm, wet of his tongue sliding against yours. “Oh, you’re _ definitely _gonna get a chili pepper now,” you say, grinning against his cheek when he turns his head to kiss your chin. Then, you add, “But I’m reserving my review until I see what you can do with your dick.”

Patrick gasps, mock-affronted. “Oh, I can do _ plenty _of things with my dick.”

You can’t see what your own eyes do, _ obviously_, in that moment, but they must do something wicked because Patrick’s breath catches when he pulls away to look at you. “Then show me, Professor Gill,” you say, as you lean back and pull his body more fully on top of yours.

His noise is half- overwhelmed groan, half- deep, dirty _ growl _ as he slots his body flush onto yours, your thighs interlocked one-two-one-two. He’s not fully hard again, but you can feel him getting ever closer as he ruts his cock against your hipbone, works his pelvis and the flat of his thigh against the sweat-slick planes of you. He’s only barely propped over you now, so warm and sweaty and close, with his forearms braced on either side of your head. Patrick kisses sloppily at your mouth, your chin, your neck, up behind your ear—all teeth and tongue and nuzzling nose as he grinds on you, works so hard to get his cock full and thick again so he can put it to, _ whoo_, good use.

You’re further up the bed, just barely and to the right, so it’s on you—_the condoms_, he whispers, biting your earlobe, gnawing a mark up under your jaw, _ if you can get_—

You flail out with your right arm and reach them, with the tips of your fingers, and manage to come away victorious with the strip. You feel Patrick’s grin spread wide and toothy against your skin, and he ruts harder, more fervently on you, snatching over at the condoms with his own hand just to take them from you, tangling his fingers with yours. His cock _ twitches_, just a little, and it sends another spurt of precome from your dick, sliding down your length as you grind against his firm-muscled thigh.

He sits up slowly as if it _ pains _ him to separate his skin from yours, rocks up onto his knees—and you take a moment to sit up, too, propped a little higher on your elbows so you can watch him do his dirty work. And boy do you ever _ watch _ him, his deft fingers as he tears open one of the wrappers and rolls a condom onto his cock. He takes a second or two to stroke over his abdomen and jerk himself a few times, eyes alternating between staring straight at you and fluttering shut whenever he gets himself good—and hell, you’ve gotta table _ that one _ for later, because you could very easily watch him all night, Professor Gill jacking his cock for you, rocking up on his knees, pumping his hips into his own hand, getting thicker and wetter and more desperate under your discerning gaze.

But as it is, you’re way, way too hungry for it, leaking all over yourself. Before long you reach up to tug his mouth back to yours and he follows along happily—eagerly, too—and lines himself up to press inside as your legs wrap around his hips.

He sheathes himself fully inside you in one go, slowly but no less intense for it, and it’s—_fuck _ . You murmur, “oh, big!” at the same time he groans, “god, so tight!” And you laugh a little at each other, kiss a bit while your body gets used to the stretch. He doesn’t pull out very far at all, at least not at first—locking your hips together again so he can _ grind _inside you, keeping you so full of him, all but smashing your dick between his body and yours, giving you more than enough friction to work with as your hips roll to meet his.

You writhe, buck, find a rhythm that works his thick cock against all the best spots inside you. Your hands fly up to graze at his pecs, grip his chest, and then you slide your hands around so your fingertips then fingernails press into his shoulder blades. It gives you a much-needed handhold as he _ finally _pulls out again, pauses with the tip of his dick inside you—a long enough pause that you start rocking and whining, trying to seat him fully again. But when he does—on his own goddamn timeline, apparently—thrusts in fully, pulls out and does it again, you scratch down his back so hard it punches the breath out of him. Patrick tips his head forward, his forehead resting on your shoulder in the perfect spot for you to tilt your head and kiss his sweaty hair, to smell the turned-on musk of him while you fall apart.

“Fuck you for being so good at this,” you say, chest heaving, breathless. “If I’d- if I’d have known, I would have dropped your class on day one.”

Patrick laughs and takes it for the joke it is. Then he twists upward with his hips at a new angle that makes you drop your arms from around his chest, flop back down to the bed, and clench your fingers in the sheets.

And then—oh, you’re in for it now. The anticipation licks down your body when he pauses to readjust, sits up, gets his hands under your hips and lifts your body toward his. He sacrifices a little finesse for _ power _ as he thrusts forward into you, clipping up to a devastating pace that has you whining in the back of your throat, loud and messy and god— just so noisy, you’d be embarrassed by it if the sex wasn’t _ spectacular_.

It wouldn’t be so criminally good if just anyone were thrusting away like this, but Patrick knows what he’s doing because _ of course he does _ . He squeezes at your hips, your waist, drags his stupid good hands up to your cock for small strokes every once in a while, just enough to keep you strung the fuck out. You can tell he’s having to work a little harder for his second orgasm of the night, but you will _ gladly _ bear the consequences of that push, the way he heaves and grinds and just _ spears _you on his throbbing cock.

His breathing is ragged as he fucks into you, bumping you up the bed, and _ your _ orgasm isn’t gonna be any fucking trouble at all.

You moan out, “Yes, Patrick, fuck me,” and he swears and drops forward again, propped up on his hands. He dips down to kiss at your neck, your jaw, sucks a mark there that will get you hard again, no doubt, when you look at it later. He eases up slightly on the speed, but not even a single _ Newton _on the force, grinding brutally in and out of you, wrenching sloppier and sloppier moans from your throat, unbidden and desperate.

“Fuck, god, wanna—” you trail off, reaching down to fist your cock in time with his thrusts, movements that bump your wrist against his pelvis. Patrick grunts the first time you both get it perfect and you clench around him right as he’s pulling out, like your body is trying to drag him back in.

“ ‘m close,” you pant, your hand flying on your dick, and he keeps at the same tempo and force to get you there, not trying some wild moves at the last second that would inevitably knock you out of the running. And you could fucking kiss him for it, so you do—you pull his head toward yours and slam your mouths together, not kissing so much as clacking teeth and open-mouthed mashing, but his tongue slides against yours and it’s hot and wet, and you’re whining into his mouth, and he’s grunting with the force of his thrusts—

And god, everything is building and tensing and winding, layers on layers of it, your hips churning and your blood singing and everything coiling and tensing until it finally

_ snaps _

and your shout is muffled into his mouth as Patrick kisses you through it and slows his thrusts as you shake apart underneath him. Until the shakes turn to twitches, turn to shivers, turn to you mouthing at his jaw while your breathing returns to normal and your body stops trembling.

When you’re closer to motionless, you can feel where _ he _ is, his elbows threatening to buckle on either side of you. He gives you a wry smile and then a kiss that tastes like—like he’s _ straining _to keep it as sweet and soft as it is. When you lick into his mouth, he gasps out, “Please!” and you stroke through his tangled, sex-sweaty hair and nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “Do it.”

He ramps up to a quicker, nastier pace—razor-edged—and god, he feels _ huge _ inside you now that you’ve come, now that you can focus on something other than your own orgasm. But you’re still—oh geez—you’re still so sensitive, slick and pulsing as you catch your breath. Or try to. Because Patrick’s _ losing it _ inside you, thrusting so hard it’s jerking your whole body, crying out your name and hitching his hips twice—three more—four more times, until he plunges deep and digs his fingers into your hips and _ freezes_, his face screwed up in one last moaning sob as he collapses onto your chest before he’s even fully spent inside you. His whole body goes slack, dead weight blanketing you—and you can tell he’s trying to be courteous about it, but he’s _ wrecked_, red and sweaty and twitchy, panting heavily from behind a blissed-out smile. Chest heaving against your own.

“Fuckin’- fuckin’ gold star,” he murmurs faintly, blowing out a puff of air to get his hair out of his eyes.

You laugh and wrap your arms around his back in a weak embrace as you both come back to yourselves. If it were up to you, you’d keep his warm weight on top of you forever—but it’s not, unfortunately, because he’s got the condom to deal with, and you’re lying in what feels like an entire swimming pool of your own sweat. Plus you’ll need to do the unsexy post-sex cleanup bathroom trip sooner rather than later. But Patrick just feels so _ good _collapsed on top of you. It’s not even a reach to imagine waking up like this, feeling so comforted and safe and cherished. All sorts of sappy, romantic thoughts that slide into your brain unbidden now that your defenses are down. The thoughts you’ve been pushing from your mind during the last few weeks of email correspondence.

Because sure, the emails haven’t all been sexts. Heck, you know Patrick’s sister’s name now, and he knows all about your parents’ divorce. But still, like, “what _ is _this” is something you’ve been actively avoiding thinking about. You’re trying to be a fun-having and free-wheeling Aquarius like your horoscope always tells you that you are. You just want to live in the moment and soak up the fun-sexy-flirty feelings for as long as you can.

Patrick kisses you slow and sweet out of your thinky-meanderings before he pinches the base of the condom and pulls out. It’s in the bedside trash can like three seconds after, and you confirm that Patrick really is one of the good ones only moments later, because he pushes the sweaty hair out of his face and says, “Um, you can have the bathroom first if you’d like.”

You kiss him right on the tip of his nose and roll off the bed in a very unsexy way, your sore muscles protesting the entire trip to the bathroom. You pee, hop in the shower to hose yourself off, steal some of Patrick’s body wash because it smells like him and you’re a sappy bastard. You take a moment to admire in the mirror how _ well-fucked _ you look, but you also admire that his towels are clean and the shower isn’t covered in mold—god, dating college boys has been. _ Grody_. You tousle your hair and touch the faint bruise on your neck, then head back into the bedroom while pretending you’re not super self-conscious about still being fully nude.

Patrick, bless him, has found all of your clothes from wherever you two had stripped them in the Heat of the Moment™, and he even smiles gently as he hands you your shirt and boxer briefs before he wanders off to clean himself up too. You kind of try to put yourself to rights, still touching at the marked-up spot on your neck—but more fondly, now, zoning out while you stare at the mess of his blankets, the grossly visible sweaty stretch of it that nevertheless still makes you smile. Pleased at yourself. Good work, team.

Patrick takes a little longer in the bathroom than you think maybe makes sense, and for a half-second you’re afraid that you’re about to get ax-murdered or something, but then he returns wearing loose, dark plaid lounge pants and has a La Croix in each hand.

You chug half the La Croix in one go—peach-pear, _ nice_—and the carbonation bubbles burst in the back of your throat. Patrick looks stupidly good in the sweatpants slung low on his hips, and you assume you’re staring at him the same way he’s staring at you in your briefs and tight shirt, your nipples still hard through the fabric.

Yeah, the sex is definitely over, you’re both done, but like—wow. It’s almost making you not want to be. But that’s not the done thing, here, so you pull your jeans on, grab your hoodie from your backpack and slip it on against the slight winter chill you’ll find outside.

Patrick lingers by the door, watching you pull on your boots while trying to pretend he’s _ not_. He sips his La Croix at a more reasonable pace, then clears his throat. “Do you, um,” he starts, pauses, shifts. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

It’s not snowing, so— “I rode my bike,” you say. “But thank you.”

“Oh, okay,” Patrick says, and goes quiet again. You internally roll your eyes because yes, Professor Gill is an adult and he cleans his shower and knows how to fuck, but he’s still such a _ boy_.

You pad over to him, boots unlaced, and kiss both of his cheeks, then gingerly take his bottom lip between your own. You nibble, determined, until his breath stutters against your lips. “I had a great time, Professor,” you say, smiling, grabbing at his waist with the hand not holding your empty La Croix. “Let’s do it again sometime yeah?”

“Oh fuck yeah,” he says, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. And you chuckle at him, swoop in for one last kiss, before dropping to your knees to lace up your boots.

\---

You don’t have any more classes with Professor Gill—mostly on purpose because of your whole _ thing_, but also because once you declare your major, you don’t need any of the classes that he’s offering. But it’s still so fun to occasionally pass in the comms building, and _ oops _ maybe you drop your papers and he stops to help you pick them up. And then maybe on the walk back to your dorm, he texts you about wanting to _ get my hands on that ass, fuck brian, those shorts are so indecent_.

It’s fun. Illicit. And not a regular thing in the slightest, though you keep doing it, and doing it, for your last three semesters of school. Of course, you casually date other people, and so does Patrick, but you always come back to each other when those don’t work out—because damn, when the dick is bomb, you don’t let that go.

And then you graduate, and can’t get a fucking job in this town to save your life even though you’re a scientist _ and _a writer now, so you’re still slinging too-expensive cappuccinos at a third-wave coffee shop two months after graduation. But it’s only a five-block walk to Patrick’s—Pat’s—house, so it’s easy to pop over and take a shower to get the arabica stench off your skin, then suck Pat’s brain out through his dick.

It’s after one of those times, both of you lying in his bed, sweat cooling on your chest, a massive hickey blooming on your right hipbone, that he props half-up on his side to face you. He looks—tentative, hesitant, and it’s been months since you’ve seen him look like that, so you prop up on your side, too.

“What’s up, buttercup,” you say, chipper, trying to defuse the tension. But it’s still quite fused.

“I, um—” Pat fidgets. “I got a save-the-date for Rhi’s wedding in the mail today.”

You beam. “Oh-emm-gee, that’s so exciting! I know they’ve been trying to pick a date for-ev-er.”

Pat hums affirmatively, but still looks like there’s something waiting to burst out from behind his teeth.

“When’s the wedding?” you ask.

“December,” Pat says, then adds sarcastically, “the perfect time to get married in Maine.”

“A little chilly,” you agree. You pause, wait for Pat to spit out whatever the fuck he needs to spit out. It takes him two solid minutes—you counted—of fidgeting to get there.

“I started looking at flights, you know, just to see the chunk o’ change it’s gonna be, and if it’d be worth it to just make a big ol’ trip and roll it into Christmas, and I- I got halfway through browsing tickets before I realized I’d been looking for two seats.”

You gasp, but Pat barrels on, closes his eyes like he’s gotta steel himself and get it all out, now that he’s started.

“Because I was thinking about _ our _ schedules, and how you might not know your work schedule for December, so _ we _ might not be able to make the full length of the trip, but that _ we _ could still work it out for the wedding and I—” His voice is a little wet, and it’s killing you, but also you feel like maybe you haven’t been _ this _ alive before, ever. “I realized that I do. Want you there. With me. And also, um? Maybe here, with me? More often.” He opens his eyes and, oh gosh, those are a little wet, too. “I think I, you know, oopsie, uh-oh, caught feelings for you.”

“Oopsie,” you repeat, but now _ your _voice sounds wet, and you’re laughing a little. Pat still looks unsure, but then you bring your thumb up to brush his cheekbone and he leans into the touch like it might be the last one.

“Heck, Professor Gill,” you say, fond. “What if word gets out to next semester’s classes that you’re a big ol’ softie?”

“My _ brand_,” he groans, but then he’s laughing and smothering your face with kisses. “Brian, does that—”

“I’d love to go to Rhi’s wedding with you,” you say, nuzzling into his neck and pushing at his chest until he’s on his back, your body sprawled half over his. “And all that other good stuff too. Though don’t buy plane tickets yet because who the ~*~fuck knows what my job situation will be in December~*~”

You both lapse into silly-happy silence, Pat’s hands brushing through your hair, your fingers swirling patterns on his chest, and it’s so peaceful and good and huh, so this is what _ love _is, maybe? Weird. You’re excited to figure it out. 

But then your brain starts a-whirring, like it always does, and you play back the last eighteen months in hyper speed, and you can’t stop yourself before you blurt—

“Wait, have we been dating this _ whole time_?”

“What do y—wait, oh my god. I met your _ dog_.”

“You _ met my dog_, oh my god we’re both—”

“—just two chucklefucks, Jesus Christ.”

“Patrick,” you say, “we’ve apparently been dating for eighteen months. You know my name’s Brian.”

And he’s laughing, you’re both laughing, when he flips you over onto your back for what will soon become round three.


End file.
